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Albie looked him up and down. Aside from how much Albie liked to see his coat on him, he could really see now just how lean Percy was. “A belly full of stew and bread is just what you need,” he said. “Warm you right up.”
Percy grinned behind his mug of tea. “I think I’m gonna like it here.”
“You proved yourself this afternoon.” Albie uncovered the risen dough and poked at it, unsure of why, only that he’d seen Marcy do it.
“You can so cook,” Percy said. “Look at you.”
He wiped his hand on his pants. “I don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like. Only that I saw Marcy make it and that’s what she used to do. Poke it, then flour a tray and put it in the oven. I don’t know how it’s supposed to look. Should it sink or bounce back when I poke it?”
Percy clearly found that funny. “Who’s Marcy?”
“One of the wives of the men who worked for my father. There were two, Marcy and Evalyn. They took care of all household duties.” He shrugged. “Now it’s just me.”
“Well, now you got me too.”
Albie wasn’t prepared for the thrill at his words or the warmth of his smile, his eyes. He had to collect himself. “Can you make a damper?”
He made a face. “I can try.”
“Tomorrow. It’ll be your turn. So, no laughing at mine until you’ve had a go.” Albie floured the tray like he’d seen Marcy do. Then he plopped the dough onto it and slid it into the wood stove. “Be kind to us,” he said.
Percy laughed but he straightened up when Albie shot him a look.
“Yes, be kind to us,” Percy echoed, raising his mug of tea like an offering to the stove.
Albie hated that he wanted to laugh.
No, he hated that he felt he couldn’t.
That, as the boss, he should keep a professional distance. And as a grieving son, he felt guilty for finding a glimmer of happiness when his father was dead.
Albie frowned. “Right then,” he said, taking a step back. “I need to get the table ready. You should go get cleaned up for dinner. We’re not high society by any means, but we shall keep the table manners my father insisted upon.”
Percy nodded and, seeing his mug was empty, he was unsure what to do with it. Albie took it, and Percy offered a smile. “Thank you. For the tea, and the coat.”
Albie gave him a stern nod as his reply, then went about his business in the kitchen.
It was a trivial thing, setting the table and expecting manners, but it was something Albie felt strongly about.
In all his years growing up, the likes of Des and Robert never ate at the dinner table in the main house. None of the staff did. They ate in their quarters, and Albie and his father ate in the house.
But after the funeral, when it was just Albie, Des, and Robert, it made sense that they’d eat together. Albie insisted they eat in the house with him, and he could tell himself all the lies he wanted: that it was for morale, that it was easier, that it made sense, given there were just three of them.
But the truth was, Albie didn’t want to eat alone.
He couldn’t bear the thought of sitting at the dining table next to his father’s empty chair.
It sat empty still.
Though Albie was certain Des saw through him, and perhaps Robert hadn’t been too keen on the idea and Des had insisted, for Albie’s sake.
So every night they cleaned up, hands and faces washed, hats off, and using manners as if there were a lady in the house. A far cry from how they spoke in the yards.
Albie liked it though, he had to admit. And he reckoned his father would like it too.
When the three men came in, Albie was serving up plates of stew on the table. The damper was done, slightly burned on one side, and the stew was more potatoes and gravy than beef.
It wasn’t anything like what Marcy could cook, but he was proud of it. He’d made it from scratch, without any lessons or guidance, and he was providing food for his hard-working men.
